


The Darkness Brings out the Stars

by deepercreeper (downdeepinside)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bullying, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Kidfic, M/M, Starjohn, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/deepercreeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the story, of a very lonely little boy. But don’t worry – he doesn’t stay that way for long."</p><p>Sherlock is seven, and in desperate need of a friend, when the universe takes pity on him (literally) and sends him one John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something a bit different here! I will try and update weekly.
> 
> Major props to 'shootbadcabbies' on tumblr for her wonderful starjohn.

Sherlock Holmes is not an extraordinary boy. That’s what his brother says, anyway. He’s stupid – an _idiot_ – and bothersome. His interests just aren’t the same as other children’s interests, his thoughts that little bit stranger than other children’s thoughts. When he grows up, according to Mycroft, he’ll probably be a hermit. Some weirdo living in a cave, the only company he’ll have will be the stars he loves so much and the words of maudlin novelists.

Sherlock, you see, is nothing special. But he is, unfortunately, _weird_.

***

“Sherlock?”

The raven-haired boy pouts, dropping his book on the floor with a loud _thump_ and looking up to his mother with lazy eyes, “Yes?” he sighs, rubbing one hand over his eyes and scrunching his nose a little at the lispy sound that forms on the _s_ sound. Mycroft would laugh.

“Do you know what time it is, love?” The woman bends down, bouncing slightly on her heels, and retrieves the book her son has discarded carelessly on the floor. Grey’s Anatomy, she notes, with a barely concealed breathe. “You really should be getting to bed.”

The young boy groans feebly, wrapping his arms around his knees and clenching his tiny fists, “But mum-”

“No ‘buts’ Sherlock,” the retired mathematician intones light-heartedly, “But if you’re a good boy, and get into bed nice and quickly,” she pauses for effect, pretending to think for a moment before grinning and running a hand through her boy’s wild curls, “Then I’ll tell you and Will a story, alright?”

The boy’s eyes light up and he looks over to Will, the bright coloured and well-stuffed bumblebee nestled under his blue bed sheets, before jumping up so quickly he nearly topples over.

“Okay!” he giggles, as he runs to retrieve his pyjamas from god-knows-where. Mrs Holmes chuckles and struggles to her feet, placing the book back in her own bookcase down the hall.

***

Sherlock’s pyjamas are oversized and silly, consisting of a purple shirt that hangs off of his little form and trousers with red and white stripes, a large bow keeping them in place and the bottoms rolled to ensure he doesn’t fall over his own feet as he runs from room to room, a habit neither of his parents have the heart to discourage. He jumps into bed and kicks the covers down, snuggling under them quickly and gripping Will with one arm, grinning to himself as he lets his head hit the pillow and is able to stare up at the poster on his ceiling, a dark (and detailed) image of the solar system that, when the lights are turned low, glows so it looks like Sherlock’s always sleeping outside. He likes it – likes the idea of all the stars up their watching him, even when he can’t be watching them back.

It’s reassuring and, whatever Mycroft may say, perfectly normal.

“Three minutes,” calls a familiar voice, as the woman walks into the room and flicks off the main light. Sherlock’s stars start to glow ever so slightly and he giggles with delight, leaning up on his arms to smile at Mummy. “That’s got to be a new record.”

“You promised a story,” Sherlock whines, rolling onto his side to face his mother, who perches on the edge of his bed. Mummy nods and grins, reaching out a hand to brush a curl out of Sherlock’s eyes. It really is time for a haircut – if only the boy weren’t so difficult to tie down, she thinks.

“Any requests, Mr Holmes?” she asks, as she kicks her feet onto the bed and leans back against the wall, smiling as Sherlock almost immediately curls into her side.

“The stars,” Sherlock whispers, his voice taking on that awe filled quality it always does when he mentions the celestial bodies, “Tell me about the stars.” He demands, and his mother nods and closes her eyes for a moment.

“Okay,” she says, eventually.

“This is the story, of a very lonely little boy. But don’t worry – he doesn’t stay that way for long.”


	2. A Friend?

"Children see magic because they look for it." - Christopher Moore.

***

Sherlock’s bum hits the floor before he really knows what’s happening, and he blinks in surprise before biting down hard on his lip. The child who shoved him grins, and folds her arms across her chest before glancing around at the posy behind her. Someone calls out an insult Sherlock doesn’t quite hear, and the noise along with the pain starts to become a little too much. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hides his head in his hands, praying to the moon that he doesn’t cry on his first day of school. He’s nearly six, and crying is for babies, and Mycroft promised that if he made it through school today they could go for ice creams later.

A bucket hits the floor next to Sherlock with a horrid _clang_ and he winces, scrambling to his feet awkwardly as the other children leave, and searching for the door back to his classroom. There had been books in there, although ones that looked a little below his usual standards. Maybe he could curl up in the corner and read. Maybe then these bullies would leave him alone.

***

“This little boy, let’s call him Scott, was a very clever boy. His parents knew it, his older brother knew it, and all the other children at school certainly knew it. From day one he’d been a clever little fella, always knowing more than everyone else, always having an insatiable – that means he always wanted more, love – thirst for knowledge.

“Unfortunately, not everyone admired him for his genius as they should. In fact, some people were really rather mean to him. He made them feel daft, even though he didn’t intend to, and whenever they got the opportunity to act better than him – to make it seem like _he_ was the less clever one – they’d take it.

“You have to understand something here, Sherlock. Scott was a very clever boy, and everyone knew it, except for Scott. He’d never learnt how clever he was; never quite saw how far above the others he was in terms of intellect. And so, when the other children singled him out, made his seem like an outsider, like a stupid boy, he felt like they were right. Because, well, why would they lie?

“If everyone was saying he was weird then he must be, mustn’t he?”

***

Mycroft sneaks into Sherlock’s bedroom late at night, the sound of barely concealed sobbing one he finds impossible to ignore when coming from his little brother. He shuffles into the room, feet enclosed in cosy slippers and body wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown, and places a small mug of (not too hot) hot chocolate on the boy’s bedside table.

“’Lock?” The twelve year old whispers, perching on his brother’s small bed, “Are you awake?”

“Mycroft?” The younger sniffs, rolling onto his back and squinting up at his older brother in confusion.

Mycroft sighs, glancing away from his brother as his skin almost immediately begins to itch, “What’s wrong?” he asks, hesitantly, after a while.

Sherlock pauses.

“You never come into my room.”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You said it smells of-”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” The older brother sighs and pulls on the ends of his dressing gown. He takes a breath, “You do know I’m joking, don’t you? When I say all of those… things to you. It’s a joke.”

“What about the people at school?”

Mycroft frowns, immediately looking back down at his brother’s stiff form. It’s been a month since he started school, and already some remarkable changes seem to be occurring. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” The curly haired boy mumbles, hiding his face in his pillow.

“Sherlock?”

A long pause, before, “Is that hot chocolate?”

Sherlock pushes himself up in his wobbly arms and stares at the mug for a moment, “Mummy doesn’t let me have hot chocolate before be-”

“Well, it’s after bed time, isn’t it?” Mycroft huffs, irritated now. Sherlock blinks before rolling over and reaching for the mug.

“I guess,” he shrugs, as he takes a loud sip of the drink. Mycroft sighs, before shuffling out of the room as quietly as he had entered.

***

At lunch time, Sherlock takes his cheese sandwiches and his short story about Mr Square to the toilets. He curls up on the closed seats and rests his head on the cubicle walls as he reads about a man punished for believing in something greater than what the others could see. His sandwich is dry, but he left his drink in the classroom and its indoor-play today.

***

“During playtime Scott would much prefer to sit by himself and think, not enjoying the games the other children played. In lessons he soon learned it was better to keep his clever little answers to himself, and soon his notebooks became full to the brim of thoughts and feelings he wasn’t allowed to express.

“When Christmas came his father brought him a new notebook, and his mother a set of colourful pens. He smiled and said he liked them very much, but when he returned to school that January, his paper book was nothing compared to the wild stories his peers told about the sledge rides and skiing holidays they had enjoyed with each other.

“Scott found it hurt, even though he didn’t really know why. It made his chest feel funny and his head sore: he wished he had stories to tell, and friends to share them with.”

***

January the sixth is Sherlock’s seventh birthday, as well as his first day back after the long Christmas holidays. Mummy provides him with a smart badge to wear on his jacket, and he shuffles nervously into school with a tin full of chocolate brownies to share with the other members of class.

Suddenly, just as registration begins, he becomes everyone best friend. They flock to him, grinning and giggling, wishing him a “Happy Birthday!” and chuckling “Thank you!” breathlessly as they shove fistfuls of cake into their mouths.

Come three o’clock everyone has forgotten him again, and tonight when Sherlock cries in his bed Mycroft sits outside the room, feeling as helpless as his little brother is.

***

“I don’t want to go to school today.”

Sherlock is dressed in his pyjamas, a light blue tee he stole from Mycroft’s wardrobe and stripy bottoms that hang over his feet. He folds his arms and jumps up so his bottom hits the bed, huffing as his hair lands in his eyes and makes them tickle.

Mummy frowns. “Are you sick?” she asks, as Mycroft snorts loudly, storming past the bedroom with a pile of books in his arms and a snarl on his face. In all honesty, he doesn’t want to go in, either.

“I don’t want to go in.” Sherlock repeats, unfolding his arms and curling his fists into the bed sheets, “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like school?” the woman echoes, in surprise. She folds her own arms and cocks and eyebrow, “Why not?”

“Because I’m Scott.” Sherlock states, calmly, before jumping down from his bed and storming out of the room.

***

“One day, our old friend Scott, reached the end of his tether. Why should it be right that he doesn’t get any stories, any friends? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to share his thoughts?

“And so, with a heavy heart and an aching loneliness that was quickly turning sour, he charged up the stairs of his little cottage called home, swinging into his room and slamming the door behind him. He pushed the windows open further than they had ever been pushed before and he crawled up onto the ledge leaning over and looking down at the scene below. He closed his eyes.

“He counted to ten.”

***

Slowly, reluctantly, the thirteen year old boy pushed open his brother’s bedroom door. He ran a hand through his short ginger hair and cringed at the mess Sherlock had made of his room, books strewn about the floor and curtains billowing in the wind. The boy in question was curled up in the corner, his duvet pulled off of the bed and instead covering his head as he breathed out distressed rasping sounds, a clear sign he was trying not to cry.

Mycroft closed the door behind him, pulling his blazer off and leaving it hanging on the door knob. He took quiet, calculated steps towards his brother and sat on the floor with as much grace as he could muster, resting his back against the wall and staring forward instead of at his little brother besides him. Sherlock pulled in a breath, clearly waiting for something to happen, and Mycroft cringed, pulling his knees up so he could rest his chin on them.

“You’ve got to go to school, you know.”

Sherlock shuffles until his head is peeking out from under the covers, and he watches Mycroft like a cat might watch its prey.

“I know, ah, I know they aren’t exactly _nice_ to you. The other kids. They single you out, I’ll bet, and I don’t even want to know what you’ve been doing at break time but… Well, if you just tried acting a little more like them, you know? Try conforming. If you do that, they’ll be nicer to you. They’ll be your friends.”

Sherlock blinks, before dropping his grip on the duvet and allowing it to fall around his legs. He shuffles until he can rest his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, and then speaks. “I want someone who likes me because I’m _me_. That’s what Mummy says friends are.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Mycroft sighs, “Is a maudlin fool. She’ll be the first to go with the wind, I reckon.”

“The wind?”

Mycroft finds his hand tangling in his little brother’s hair, despite his instincts insisting his hand should really be _anywhere_ else, “You like stories, don’t you, Sherlock?” a chin bumps against his shoulder, which he takes to mean the other boy is nodding, and he smiles grimly, focusing on the point where the wall meets the carpet, “Well, then. There’s an East Wind coming, brother mine, and if you’re not strong, if you don’t find a way to beat it, it’s going to get you. The wind is coming to get you.”

Sherlock squeaks and pulls away, staring at his brother with wide eyes, Mycroft smiles and shrugs, clambering to get off of the floor before leaving the room shortly after.

***

“There was a huge gust of wind, so big it nearly knocked him off of his feet, and he had to squeeze his eyes closed really very hard. As he counted, he remembered all the bad things the people had ever said to him, all the children at school, and some of the teachers, too. He remembered all of it until he started to feel quite mad. Then, once he reached ten, he let out a mighty _scream_ and opened his eyes again.

“The wind stopped, and Scott knew it was silly but he felt almost as if he could see all of his anger floating away, out of the window and down to the fields in front of him.”

***

The entire class is colouring, shading in large block letters and giggling as they argue over which colour is best, jumping around the tables and throwing pens to each other. A red felt tip hits Sherlock in the head and he whimpers, dipping his nose until it touches the paper. Colouring doesn’t interest him, so he’s trying some of the letters Mycroft had been teaching his instead. The _f,_ he thinks, is the hardest; but that doesn’t matter since his name doesn’t have any of those anyway.

The bell rings for lunch and Mrs Turner, the oblivious teacher, blearily looks up to the class and smiles, declaring today will be indoor-play due to the bad weather. Several children whoop and Sherlock, after a beat, shuffles up to her with a hand wrapped around his stomach and claims he is feeling sick.

***

When Sherlock gets home, Mummy sends him straight to bed. He crawls underneath the covers, feeling miserable but not really _ill,_ and feels around for Will, eventually finding the bee at the foot of the bed. He wraps his little arms tightly around the bumblebee and presses his nose into the animal's too-smiley face. His heart hurts as he shuffles in bed, twisting and turning until he’s able to stare up at the solar system on the ceiling.

An idea pops into his head and, after a moment, he smiles to himself, jumping quietly down from the bed. He pushes his window open a crack and sits Will on the window ledge.

He closes his eyes.

He counts.

***

“And once Scott had counted, and he had screamed, and he had thought, he found a star. He focused on the star, staring at until he vision went fuzzy and his eyes started to sting, and after a while, he whispered to the star.

“Stars, you see, are magic. If you tell a star want you want – what you _really really_ wish for – it will grant your wish. Just once; we only get one wish, love, but it’s there. And Scott, being a very clever boy, knew this.”

***

“Ten.” Sherlock whispers under his breath, before opening his eyes and staring up at the stars with a smile he can barely resist playing on his lips. He pulls in a loud breath, and lets it out with a _whoosh_ because he isn’t sure Mummy would approve of him screaming. His eyes dart around the sky, before they land on a star – just at the top of the plough. He nods decisively and looks up to the light, furrowing his eyebrows and concentrating the way Mycroft does when he’s got a load of maths work to do.

“One wish, okay?” He asks the star, taking it’s twinkling to be a yes. He smiles and rests a hand over Will, “Okay.” He repeats, before pulling in a steady breath and giggling like he knows what he’s doing is silly.

“I wish for a friend.”

Nothing happens, and Sherlock crinkles his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, “Please? Please send me a friend?”

Another pause.

“Please?”

***

“Scott wished, and wished, and wished. He wished and whispered to the star until his voice started to give out. And just as he started to give up – just as he started to realise that maybe he was wrong, as he started to think that maybe all the other children _were_ right, maybe he _was_ an idiot for believing in silly things like wishes and stars, a bright light appeared in the sky.

“A new star.

“The new star appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and it’s light was brighter than any of the other stars in the sky. Before Scott even had a moment to gasp, the star started to plummet towards the ground, towards, what looked like, his front garden.

“So Scott, being a clever and inquisitive boy, snuck out of his house and into the garden to find the bush the star had landed in.”

***

There was a loud _swoosh_ ing sound.

And then a bright light.

Just like the story.

Sherlock gasped as he watched the light fall, drop down to earth like a shooting star he’d seen on the telly. After an awe-struck pause he giggled, scrambling in his wardrobe to find some shoes and shoving the bright coloured wellies on over his bare feet, pulling a blue duffle on shortly after. Once he deemed himself ready, and had sourced a torch from under the bed, he started his journey past Mummy’s room and outside.

***

“He searched for hours, and the mud of his garden felt soft and strange under his toes. He was nearing giving up hope, once again, when he heard a rustling from a bush he thought he had checked. He started towards the bush and realised there was glitter, everywhere. Only a fine dusting, but enough to make the leaves look golden in the dim light.”

***

Sherlock squeals with delight and trepidation when he notices the bush in the corner, the one with large pale leaves and dark branches, is shimmering. He shines his torch on it and golden glitter catches the light.

Slowly, he approaches the bush, his feet making squelching sounds in the mud.

“Hello?”

There’s no response to Sherlock's quiet call, and he frowns as he finally rounds on the bush. He bends down on his wobbly knees and squints into the bush, “I’m Sherlock,” he tells the foliage, smiling nervously, “Is there anyone there?”

***

“When he finally gathered up the courage to look in the bush, he found a pair of wide eyes staring at him. Scott gasped, unsure what to say, and the other boy smiled and stuck out his hand. The two greeted each other like adults, and then giggled like children. They talked about nothing, and played silly games that made sense only to them. When morning finally came, Scott showed the newcomer into his house.

“And so, from that day on, our boy Scott, wasn’t alone anymore.”

***

There’s a giggle from behind Sherlock and he frowns, immediately spinning round on high alert. He opens his mouth to snap at whoever is laughing at him, before immediately coming to a halt.

Stood in front of him, wearing nothing but his birthday suit, is a small boy about his age, with sandy blonde hair and glitter dusted over his eyelashes. The boy blinks, and then giggles again, before offering Sherlock a small wave.

“Hello,” he laughs, an infectious grin blooming on his face.

“Hi,” Sherlock nods, his torch dropping to the ground.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'short story' Sherlock is reading is 'Flat Land'. I crack myself up :'3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are wonderfluff.


End file.
